The sofa arrived on a Tuesday and nobody was allowed to sit on it.

Not properly, anyway.

There was a transparent plastic cover over the cushions, tucked so tightly into the corners that it made a small crackling sound whenever someone got too close.

“Take it off,” her daughter said.

“Why?”

“Because it’s a sofa, Amma. Not a museum piece.”

Amma shook her head.

“When guests come.”

The guests never came.

Weeks became months.

Everyone sat on the dining chairs. The grandchildren sat on the floor. Amma herself preferred the old wooden armchair near the window.

Then one Sunday her grandson arrived with a schoolbag, wet socks and exactly seven minutes of patience.

He walked into the hall.

Looked at the sofa.

Looked at his grandmother.

“Can I sit?”

“Plastic is there.”

He sighed like a tired old man.

Then he sat anyway.

Crinkle.

Crinkle.

He pulled out his homework.

“What are you doing?” Amma asked.

“Maths.”

“On the new sofa?”

“Yes.”

She stared at him.

Then she sat beside him.

The plastic crackled again.

“Move,” she said.

“Why?”

“Give me some space.”

That evening, her daughter found the plastic cover folded neatly in a cupboard.

“What happened?”

Amma shrugged.

“Guests came.”

“Who?”

She pointed toward the sofa.

“My grandson.”

Read this when a house finally stops being kept for some future day.